You Have To Feel It
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl. ZA, Season 6. He had to let himself feel it. He knew she was right. But she had to let herself feel it too. Daryl/Carol


**I did this in response to a prompt request by princessdeirdre1 at NineLives. I hope this is something like what she had in mind. There are spoilers ahead for episodes up to the last one. I've taken some liberties and changed some events from the show, but some spoilers still apply, so be advised.**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl's pounding heart was only drowned out by the vibration of the truck. He was driving as hard as he could without risking the engine that was already in bad shape. The call for help over the radio was enough to renew the sense of urgency inside of him that he'd felt before and now there was nothing standing in his way to return to Alexandria.

 _There was nothing standing in his way to get back to her._

He'd been choking on the feeling since he'd talked with Rick through the radio. He'd been choking on the feeling since he'd heard the horn blowing and knew that something was wrong. He didn't have to know what was happening to know that something was wrong. Some of them would die if something happened at Alexandria. Many of them, actually, would probably die. There were too many people there that were unprepared. There were too many people who had lived sheltered from everything. They would die.

He knew that she could take care of herself. She could survive. She'd proven it, time and time again, but still it didn't calm the feeling in the pit of his stomach. No matter how many times she proved herself unstoppable, almost immortal, it didn't ever stop him from fearing that one day—she'd just be gone.

And now, he was regretting what he'd regretted a hundred times before but had never remedied. He was regretting that he'd never said anything to her. He'd never said words that were always on the tip of his tongue and, once again, he had to face the gut wrenching fact that he might never get the opportunity to say those words.

This time—it would be different. She'd told him he had to let himself feel. She'd told him that he had to. What she never realized was how much he felt already—and how many of those feelings scared him because they were about her.

At the end of it all? She was guardian over many of his feelings, whether or not she even suspected.

Daryl pulled the truck up outside the gates. In a feverish fit he put it in park and turned it off. He left the keys in the ignition and left Sasha and Abraham to fend for themselves as far as getting out and getting in the gates. Their arrival must have been announced by the loud rumbling of the truck's approach because there was somebody there, already pushing the gates open to let them inside. Without acknowledging them at all, and without speaking to anyone, Daryl darted through the gates and felt the pavement pounding beneath his boots.

He purposefully narrowed his vision not to see the evidence of struggle and disaster. He purposefully ignored the presence of bodies and he didn't try to identify any of them. He wasn't going to look at the dead. He wasn't going to acknowledge them. At the moment, the only thing that mattered to him was finding her—and he had to believe that he'd find her alive. There simply couldn't be any other way to find her.

Out of breath to the point that his lungs were burning, Daryl slowed his steps as he got near the house. Swallowing burned his throat and his chest heaved. He was thankful for the quick burst of running because he could blame it all—his dry mouth, his burning throat, his heaving chest, the ache inside him—on the physical activity and not on any real emotion. His ears heard the sound he produced without meaning it, a mewl almost, when he saw her there.

He stopped his steps completely. He stood, for just a second, in the middle of the road and everything around him seemed to still entirely. He wondered if, honestly, it was all a vision. He wondered if it was all something his imagination was conjuring up because he wanted it to be so.

She looked at him then. She lifted her head from where it hung, while she sat there on the porch steps wearing yet another odd outfit in a parade of strange clothing choices that she'd made since they'd arrived, and she looked at him. Then she dropped her head again.

His feet found the ability to move once more, this time not as quickly, and he made his way toward her.

She was covered in blood. Head to toe. She was saturated in it. Daryl swallowed, approaching now more slowly than he meant to. She didn't look hurt—not physically at least—but there was so much blood there.

"You OK?" He asked, the words coming out a little rougher than he'd expected. She didn't respond. She just remained there, her head slightly hung. "You hurt?" He asked.

She looked at him again. Her face, this time, was drawn up in an effort not to cry. He knew the look well, but it had been some time since he'd seen her wear it. Without even knowing what had put it there, Daryl felt an ache in his chest like it was his own pain. She stared at him, lips pressed tightly closed. Her eyes were wet, and the longer she looked at him, the wetter they got. The tears welled up in them, visible to his eyes.

Daryl finally stepped forward and reached out his hands. First he ghosted them over her arms. She didn't pull away from him and she didn't respond like he'd touched anything that was injured. She wasn't shying away from his hands and she didn't seem to be hiding anything like she had when they'd survived the fall in the van. She wasn't injured. The blood wasn't hers.

Daryl squatted as best he could in front of her, bringing himself to eye level with her when she raised her face to look at him. She didn't seem, for the moment, to hardly even realize he was there. She didn't seem to want to realize he was there.

He understood, all too well, the vacancy in her stare.

Daryl straightened himself up. Whatever had happened there was over. Whatever it was, it was done and Carol had been involved in it. Everyone else could take care of cleaning it up. Daryl had other things to worry about.

He leaned and caught her arm. She followed his lead, even if she didn't really help him, as he put her arm around his neck. He gathered her up, lifting her the same way that he had when he'd found her in the tombs. She still felt, in his arms, like she had then. She felt, always, good in his arms. It felt like she belonged there.

Hugging her close to him, Daryl mounted the porch steps. He was careful to check his breathing so she wouldn't insist that he put her down, but at the moment he doubted she'd say anything at all. He maneuvered himself enough to get the door of the house open and he stepped inside with her. From the looks of it, the house was abandoned. That was exactly what he wanted. Gathering his strength up and setting himself for the course, he carried her up the stairs toward the bathroom.

Daryl lowered Carol to sit on the bathroom counter beside the sink. He turned on the water and let it run from the tap a few moments. He looked around. The houses here were too pristine for his tastes as it was, but with himself and Carol both covered in blood and muck, the contrasting cleanliness was even more appalling. He finally settled on the only washrag that he could find, a white one, and soaked it in the water. Immediately it became stained with the mess running off his own hands, but he rinsed it and wrung it out anyway.

Daryl raised the rag to Carol's face and started to wipe it. Layers of dirt came off, but much of the blood was left behind. He rinsed the rag again and repeated the action, scrubbing gently, until her face was clean. She didn't say anything. She simply sat there and stared off at the far wall like she was entirely absent from the whole experience.

So Daryl didn't say anything either. Instead, he moved to her hands. A few more rounds of rinsing the rag and mopping at her skin, and her hands looked clean again. His own, too, were clean from simply rinsing them time and time again in the hot water. He caught hers on top of his, palm to palm, and looked at the contrast between their skin. For as much as her hands had seen—in this life and the one passed—her hands were still far softer and whiter than his own. He raised her hand up and, without even planning to do it, he brought it to his lips and kissed it impulsively. He stilled, too, the moment that he realized what he'd done and he looked to her to see if there was any indication that she had even realized the action.

She was looking at him now. She looked like she'd come back to him. Her eyes still glittered with tears that she was holding back, but she was looking at him. She moved her hand from his and she touched the side of his face. She pushed his hair back with her fingertips. Then she jerked and made a slight choking noise, trying to swallow down something that desperately wanted to escape.

Daryl swallowed.

"You gotta—let yourself feel it," Daryl said. "It—eats you up inside. You gotta let yourself feel it."

Carol opened her mouth like she might say something, but nothing came out. At first there was just silence. She ran her fingers through Daryl's hair and he reached and caught her shoulders, almost afraid that she might slip off the counter. The gripping of her shoulders, or maybe the feel of his hair, brought something about in her and suddenly she let loose. And when she did, the wail that came out sounded like it had come from so far down inside of her that it had traces of her soul stuck to it. It was long and rang in the bathroom and only ended when it trailed into sobs.

Daryl stepped forward and caught her. He held her against him as tight as he dared, pressing her face into his chest. He stroked her hair. He rubbed her back. He did all the things that he could imagine might help her to feel better, even if he knew that nothing would really make her feel better. Whatever it was she was sobbing over, she just had to get it out—but at least now it had begun.

She shook him with her sobbing. His whole body moved with hers. She scrubbed her face against his dirty chest and finally wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into her and almost throwing him off balance a few times. Still, he stood there, waiting and holding her, until the wave had passed over her.

He only pulled away from her when the shaking had stopped and there was no more sound coming from her. She was still shaking—soft tremors now—but the worst was over. At least, for the time being.

"What happened out there?" Daryl asked.

Carol shook her head at him and Daryl found the rag. He kept one hand on her while he grabbed it and he used it to mop at her face again. He repeated his question.

"What happened out there?"

"I don't know," Carol said. "People. Death. What always happens..."

Daryl hummed.

"No," he said. "Not—just today. Not just—the people. Out _there_? Before we got here. Before Terminus. What happened out there?"

Carol made a noise and squirmed like she might try to escape him. Daryl moved to hold her tight against him again.

"You don't gotta talk about it," he said finally. "But you gotta let yourself feel it."

He knew she felt it, though. Whatever it was? She felt it. She felt it all the way to the deep place where the wail from earlier had originated. The sobbing didn't return, but she did wrap her arms around him. She clawed at his back as she gathered his shirt in her fists. He responded the only way that he knew how and he hung tight to her and waited her out. Eventually, she relaxed again and, when he pulled away, he could see the exhaustion on her face.

"What about you?" Carol asked.

Daryl hummed at her.

"What about me?" He asked, returning to mopping at her face. He cleaned up any residual evidence of the flood of emotion that had passed through her.

"Have you let yourself feel it?" Carol asked, her voice shaking slightly.

Daryl swallowed and caught her face in his hands. He turned it so that he could look into her eyes, red from the crying.

He couldn't say it. He'd never been good at talking about his feelings. So he simply nodded his head slightly and hoped that she was able to catch the action. She mirrored it, so he took that as proof that she had.

"Are you OK?" Carol asked.

Daryl nodded again.

"Made it back here," Daryl said. "And—you're OK. The rest?"

He stopped, shrugged, and shook his head at her. She was calming now. She was almost entirely calm. He could see the expression on her face that he knew so well—maybe it wasn't true peace, but it was a look of peace that had the ability to make him feel like everything was alright in the world. Or, at the very least, to make him feel like everything _could_ be right in the world.

Daryl chewed his lip. His stomach churned. He still couldn't do it. He still couldn't bring himself to say the words that he'd rehearsed on his bike. He couldn't bring himself to say the words that he'd rehearsed in the woods when he was wondering if he'd ever make it back. He simply couldn't find the words.

But he knew, if he didn't find some way to say them, that he'd run the risk of being stuck somewhere again, someday, wishing that he'd been a braver man. So he did the only thing that he could do. He sucked in a breath to try to calm his own fears and he ducked his head to bring his lips to hers.

And she responded softly to the kiss, wrapping her arms around him once more and pulling him back against her—back against the counter.

When he broke away, he looked to her for some kind of answer about whether or not what he'd done was permissible. What he got from her was a soft smile. It was a soft smile that turned into a slightly larger smile—the kind that lit her eyes up for a moment.

She sucked in a breath, the ragged sound of emotion still there when she inhaled.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I felt that too."


End file.
